


Touchstones

by ArawnScribble



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Blind Ignis Scientia, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, Depression, Feels, Gen, Gore, Heavy Angst, Injury, Introspection, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Other, Violence, World of Ruin (Final Fantasy), World of Ruin Big Bang (Final Fantasy XV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArawnScribble/pseuds/ArawnScribble
Summary: During the ten years that Noctis is absent from their lives, Gladio, Prompto, and Ignis consider what it means to try and survive in the ruined world without magic, healing, and importantly phoenix downs. In time, it becomes less about living, and just about trying to survive until their King returns. In contrast, Noctis comes back to his friends realising the power of what they have given him and learns further of what they are still prepared to give before the dawn. The last King of Lucis knows he must return the favour.Written for the World of Ruin Big Bang, featuring art by puffbirdstudio!
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Talcott Hester/Other(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: World of Ruin Big Bang





	1. I: Gladio

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is my piece for the World of Ruin Big Bang, which was hosted by the amazing crazyloststar and audreyskdramablog. I just want to thank them for setting this amazing event up, and for also supporting me when I was sick over last winter which affected my ability to post earlier- you guys are awesome, thank you!
> 
> Here I just thought I would play with the idea that after Noctis is gone, the bros have to deal with the fact that there is no more elemancy or healing magic, which in turn affects their supplies of potions and phoenix downs. Specifically, I thought about what it could mean for them to not have downs to hand, and how it affects their confidence as fighters and survivors during the World Of Ruin. Each chapter is dedicated to each bro at a specific time during the ten years, with of course, Noctis having the last word XD
> 
> The art featured here is by the skillful and dedicated puffbird, who was fantastic in putting up with my shitty response times and made a wonderful piece. I especially love the colour palette and the line-work, as I feel it really suits the mood I was trying to go for. Please go and give them some love!

**I**

**Gladio**

**(Fourteen months without Noctis)**

He can’t tell how long they’ve been fighting. Could be two minutes. Could be an hour. No, no it’s not possible to fight for an hour. What the fuck. He’d be dead. He’ll be dead _now_ if he doesn’t focus on what’s in front of him, shifting his weight to his back foot to make space from the oozing mass in front of him that wants to swallow him whole. He has never seen a Bavarois this fucking big before. It’s completely filling his field of vision, swallowing the field around him as a huge, violet ball of angry violent mass, jiggling with menace.

Gladio used to laugh at these things. He’s sure he did, cos they were jokingly named after a dessert, for Eos sake. They used to look pathetic in their ambushes, suitable only as flankers for the more superior daemons as they pushed their feeble jelly bodies forward like new-borns, hungry for soft human flesh. All it used to take was a quick sword swipe or a blast of elemancy to disperse them, no thought given after. But those days are long gone- the _days_ themselves no longer exist. And daemons don’t ambush anymore. They run about freely in the darkness, the new Kings of the earth, and people like Gladio are the trespassers now. Trespassers with no teeth as their weapons are no longer bolstered by enchanted adornments or backed up with an arsenal provided by the nether world. The singular, elemancy-barren weapons that are strapped clumsily to holsters feel heavier yet have hollow strikes, barely leaving a scratch without their regular magic.

The Bavarois opens its shifting jaws wide and lurches forward, looking to swallow its prey whole. Gladio moves to dodge out the way, but it’s like he moves in flickering stills. A lagging figure that stops and starts and barely responds to the attack with a tight roll to the left. Years of consistent practice keeps his blade held at an angle, so he doesn’t impale himself in the side, but his body thumps hard on the dry dirt, his brain rattling in his skull with a roaring in his ears. He can barely hear the others, his teammates, but he knows they are around him _somewhere_ , also struggling to stay alive. Struggling to fight back against these massive, nasty fucking daemons that want to pummel them into the ground.

Such a thought should be what snaps Gladio to attention. Taking stock of where his fellow fighters are, what the next strike should be for his foe in order to kill it. Looking for pathways through the fight and then giving his assistance to the others. It’s the basic checklist of battle he’s had drilled into him like it’s a strand of his DNA, a system of concentration he performs as easily as breathing. But right now, it’s not happening. He’s not here. He’s not _thinking._ He staggers upright and gazes blankly at Bavarois, looking only to react, not strike back, with a lifetime of practice and routine barely saving his pathetic ass. It’s fighting with slimmest of margins, playing with percentages of success he can’t afford, and he will lose out and lose his life unless he changes it. The awareness of his own chances of survival should be enough to make him pull himself together- it should be _more_ than enough. What the fuck is he doing right now? Gladio has always been the one switched on. Never passive or missing the motions. Analysing constantly, looking out for others, fighting on whilst focusing on the objective at hand, even where others can’t-

_“When you can’t focus, I focus for you. It’s my job-”_

His evading roll has incensed the Bavarois to full fury, already peeved at the constant defence. Gladio figures out its next move just a split second after, blinking as the daemon suddenly liquifies, sinking into the ground like a puddle of hot wax. Instinct propels him to take a further step back, but he doesn’t have time to make the distance he needs. The Bavarois is too fast as it spreads out towards him in a gooey tide of rage, rushing towards him, then past him. It’s now manifesting back into a solid form from behind with gaping jaws, ready to feast, to end him.

“-dio! _Move!”_

Gladio hears Cor roar out his name somewhere to his right as the Bavarois slams down its goopy, burning paws to pin him down. Gladio isn’t sure why he hears Cor above the din of the daemon’s shrieks and the others fighting, but somehow his voice cuts through the fog, connecting with Gladio’s stunned mind just as he twists to avoid the close attack, his sword arm swinging in a fast and neat curve upwards to gut back into the Bavarois’s squishy chest. The speed of the movement coming from his own body is as neat and effective as flicking a switch, and he gasps in the exertion, feeling the blade stick into the beast. He turns just in time- no, no he doesn’t. He’s still a fraction off. There’s a biting pain in his right shoulder, an oozy limb tearing through his jacket to the stiff muscle underneath, drops of Bavarois puss flecking against his exposed collarbone. The injury registers only in dull acknowledgement. Experience tells Gladio that it’s not deep. The pain is not debilitating enough to make him lose his dual grip on the handle of his blade. Another swift breath in, drawing his weapon out of the purple mass to turn and swing overhead, facing the daemon directly, and he can hear himself yell as he plunges the blade back down.

His blow goes straight for the middle of the head. He doesn’t know if Bavarois’ have brains. He certainly can’t see one. But the methods of battle always point to the head being the critical point beside the middles, and it doesn’t fail him here. The daemon’s shriek is cut short as the blade meets resistance against a lesser jelly-like substance, still cutting between the glowing hollows that make its eyes. It seems to deflate on impact, sinking back to the ground and bleeding as a browning mass on the floor. Or Gladio thinks its bleeding- holy mother of Eos, he should not be giving a shit about that right now. He should give a shit about whether it’s moving or not, and it’s not. It continues to seep into the ground, but doesn’t reappear, doesn’t come back to form. Gladio feels himself transfixed, watching it dissipate. It’s dead. He’s certain it is-

“Walsh- _wait-!”_

That’s Cor again, but there’s something different in the way he screams this time- and that’s it, he’s _screaming._ Pushed by the fear, Gladio turns away to look for Walsh on the battlefield. He’s an older hunter, with impossibly bright red hair cropped short. And tall. That was the first thing Gladio noticed, that and he was skinny. He peers through the chaos to see that blink of red amongst the flashlights and the glowing menace of the remaining daemons thrashing in the dark, and there’s Walsh, facing off against a huge Galvanade. The round, spiky topped daemon is the worse one off, swelling in desperate anger at the prospect of defeat, and Walsh is facing off against it with a brutal confidence, the great sword in his hands drawing back to offer a final blow. All the Galvanade can continue to do is to keep growing, ballooning like it’s going to simply burst apart in response-

Gladio feels a terrible kick in his stomach. Because wait, no-

That’s _exactly_ what they do.

Gladio gets Cor’s sudden panic. Walsh must not know. Not know that Galvanades explode like literal bombs with a nucleus of electricity that attempts to reach every living thing, leaving odious little offspring as an afterthought. He can’t, because Walsh lets out a bellow of attack and lunges for the final kill even as the Galvanade continuous to grow, thundering in its wake. Gladio can feel himself move towards Walsh, the cry of warning stuck in his throat. He can sense that Cor is rushing forward as well, still shouting although the words are lost in the din. Neither of them will make it to him in time, it’s all happening too fast, and they can’t reach Walsh to pull him back before he makes the hit, the solid mass of metal acting like a conducting rod as soon as it touches the bulging growth of the daemon. There’s the sense of everything going all at once and acting in thickness, going slow yet rushing ahead, as the field suddenly lights up as Walsh makes contact.

There’s a brief whiteout, a muffling in the ears, as if Gladio has been plunged underwater, followed by the ringing boom as the Galvanade bursts. The first thing Gladio sees as his vision adjusts after the hit is electricity crackling around them, jumping into the earth in random forks and spending itself out with the sharp smell of burning rubber. But then he’s caught by the howling. The desperate, agonising howling of Walsh as he drops to the floor, sparks bouncing around him. The giant Galvanade is gone and instead there’s a handful of smaller one’s screeching, rolling around and looking for Walsh so they can finish what their parent started.

Gladio and Cor get to Walsh before they do, and Gladio only seeks to look at his new set of enemies and nothing else. Not at the man on the floor, shrieking, writhing in a mess of black and red. No, he can’t look at him. He only focuses on the purple blobs and squashing them flat, impervious to all of the ungodly noise ringing in his ears. Slash and stomp, kick, throw back, kill all of them- all of these little bastard things, and keep them away from Walsh. Because Gladio might have been seeing things just a second ago, when he caught sight of him again out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he’s not too badly injured and there’s still a chance. The last of the baby Galvanades pops and withers away to nothing under Gladio’s sword, and his instincts tell him that the field is clear. He whips around to find Cor to confirm it, but he finds him kneeling down at Walsh’s side, huddled over him, obscuring the view.

Gladio hurries over to check them both, and then believes that he’s going to be sick.

Walsh’s face is barely discernible in the glow of Gladio’s pocket light; a pair of distant eyes and a mouth gasping for air in a red ballooning mush of skin that looks like grinded meat. But that’s where he got lucky in the blast, because Gladio can see that the rest of him is charred. There’s literally no other word for it. From the shoulders down he is nothing but a blackened, scorched mess of clothes fused with skin and whites of bone poking out here and there, with the revolting sound of sizzling mixed with the repellent smell of burnt flesh that has Gladio fighting not to gag.

Cor is holding the back of Walsh’s head, and Gladio feels his knees give beside him, watching Walsh’s mouth pop open and close in desperation. It’s an absolute cruelty that he’s still conscious for these last moments of his life, clinging on to nothing. Because he’s certainly going to die, and all Gladio can do is watch. It’s horrifying in that these seconds feel awfully pathetic.

“S-s-s…”

“It’s alright.” Cor mumbles back at Walsh attempting to speak, and Gladio can feel his teeth grind together hard, the veins in his neck popping out. He balls his hands to fists on his thighs so they don’t shake, unable to look away from the movement of Walsh’s mouth. He’s not looking at Cor now, he’s not looking at anything.

“It’s going to be alright.”

There are footsteps behind him, and in a wild panic Gladio springs to his feet to turn around, fingers outstretched. Three sets of pocket lights hit his eyes and he squints, picking out the faces. It’s the other members of their team. One of them, the smallest one- Phora is her name, she’s not looking back at him, eyes locked onto the ground and repeating the same words over and over.

“Oh my gods, oh my gods, no-”

The guy next to her, Rhys, has the foresight to grab her before she can move forward towards Walsh, and that movement sets off a chain reaction, where Phora turns and shrieks a string of curses into the night, kicking at the ground, and Rhys pulls away. Gladio hears Cor stand back up beside him, and Gladio has to gather all the willpower he can muster to not look over his shoulder. There’s no point, Walsh has gone.

“Injured?” Cor murmurs, and Gladio has to tear away from gazing at Phora and back to Cor, who doesn’t sound like he’s just held a dying man through his last moments. Immediately Gladio wants to hit himself. What a stupid fucking thought. Guiltily he sneaks some searching looks at the rest of the team, trying to assess them, whilst also trying to avoid looking at them in the eye as they stare at him, waiting on someone to tell them what to do.

“Don’t think they are.”

He gets a swift frown from the former the Marshall, like he’s disappointed with Gladio’s answer. But it’s gone before it can be properly registered, and Cor nods towards the direction they were supposed to be heading before the ambush.

“Lead the others to the camp, I’ll be with you shortly.”

The order doesn’t allow for questions or dissent, and Gladio feels less like the trail-finder and more like the person who happens to be at the front as he trudges the remaining three through the barren fields, lights held aloft and scanning for more daemons. The camp is barely five minutes away, but Gladio keeps looking back at the diminishing figure of Cor

Although it’s barely a five-minute walk to their planned rest area from the ambush site, Gladio feels desperate to turn around and go back, to the diminishing figure behind them that is burying Walsh’s body. Everyone’s learnt the hard way that a body killed by daemons had to be put in the ground quick, before the developing Scourge could catch the scent of stragglers nearby. But it’s not that Gladio is worried about Cor being by himself to do the task, it’s more that he thinks that not being asked to help is a message about himself. That he’s failed somehow. He immediately scoffs aside that thought as soon as it forms. Seriously? What is _wrong_ with him? He never used to read so much into every little thing someone said or did. Never. Never used to doubt himself so much either. And Walsh is fucking dead _._ It’s only been their third ‘day’ on the search out here on Causcherry Plains and they’ve already lost more than what it will be worth.

Their camp is an old haven, although the runes no longer glow, just carved ghosts sitting in the rock; the elemancy nodes around the circle also now lifeless shards simply sticking through the cracked earth. They always stop at the Havens however, even though they offer no more protection than the ground just a few meters away. It’s just because they’re familiar. There’s a stiff, tired silence in the air as everyone silently gets to setting up, pulling supplies out of packs. It’s not safe enough to set out a tent, so they’ll sleep in the open air, surrounded by the relevant safety of the large daemon-repellent searchlights that are fortified with the filament Cindy patented from that singular bulb they rescued from Crestholm Channels. Gladio will instantly volunteer for taking the first watch as soon as it’s mentioned; his form of penance. Right now, he goes to kindle the fire in the centre of the haven, having to light the once enchanted wood with a battered lighter that has a well-endowed nude male figurine crudely drawn on the side. A little gift bought for him for shits and giggles at a gas station near the Disc of Cauthess in another lifetime. He regards the weak orange glow in against the backdrop of black for a fraction too long. He needs another mental slap to stir himself. Get moving, dumbass.

The other three seem to be moving as lethargic as he is. Rhys is somewhat making an attempt to sort out their food supplies. The near-silent member of their team, Ell, is fixing the screws on their backup bulbs. Phora sits off and away from them, just on edge of the light’s secure glow, angrily sharpening her sword blade and not looking at anyone, the anger radiating off of her like a heat source. Gladio is suddenly stuck with not knowing what to do, because it feels like there is nothing he can do. He doesn’t know any of them, he doesn’t know what else they can do whilst they wait for Cor to come back. His own inaction seeks to drive him crazy, for he wants to do something. He wants to lead. Act. Direct the others. Provide some sense of stability. It’s all he is. It’s all he knows how to do, and yet here he can’t find that essence of himself and bring it to the front of his being.

And this mission is too important to not be at his best self. That’s why there are so many of them together, even though Hunter Headquarters bitched loudly at first about how they couldn’t spare any newbies. They’re here on the Plains for a week in order to visit what’s left of the settlements and rest stops and undertake inventory. Cataloguing what’s left of the phoenix downs and potions, regardless of what former territory they’re from. They’re also under orders from HQ to take whatever they consider to be ‘surpluses’ from these places for Lestallum’s stock, although since day one it’s become clear to Gladio that the thought of anyone having any items that could be ‘extra’ is basically a joke. The places they’ve visited just seem like the current state of Old Lestallum itself but in miniature: overcrowded, with dwindling supplies and hope with constant threats of daemons from all angles. There’s still a chance that some of next lots of stops they have may bear better results, though Gladio finds himself half wishing that they won’t. Who in hell wants to be the one to snatch up those lifesaving downs and potions from a fenced village that’s on its knees? Not him. But then again, returning to Old Lestallum to a similar bunch of people without what they need isn’t what he wants to do either. No one ever planned for this. Governments and organisations and groups might have planned for the darkening days and increased daemons, but no one ever foresaw a time without elemancy, without the means to make potions and phoenix downs. In everyone’s minds, they would always have a source around who could produce them, whether it was Nifleheim and their manipulation of the scourge that made them on mass scale, or the Lucian source- where Gladio suddenly pictures a scrawny teenage boy shaking up a box of fruit juice with glowing hands and a dumb, sheepish look on his face.

Cor’s outline approaches in between the searchlights. Absolutely covered in dust, he walks silently past the main group to approach Phora, taking her hand in the glow of the lights.

“For Kay.” He tells her as he drops a pair of half melted tags into her palm. “If she asks how he died, tell her the truth. She’s a hunter too.”

For a split second Phora’s face turns ugly, and Gladio feels his muscles tense, ready to move and act as a block if needed. But it passes, and she draws up a blank look, holding up the blobs of metal to her eyes. Gladio has to look away, Walsh’s ravaged body flickering through his mind. It’s not like he’s seen shitty injuries before, but before now such things used to be always fixable. If you got there in time, with a potion or phoenix down to hand, there’d be a few tense seconds but then things would be _alright_. Wounds would melt and stitch and leave nothing behind, chests would move with air, eyes would flutter open in relief- it was as if the initial hits never happened. Now people die from everything and anything, and it all seems so preventable but it’s not. Gladio knows first aid like an instinct, as part of his training as it was to swing a blade, but it gets so bloody and filthy and more often times than not, there’s nothing to show for it. The stakes riding on his care in the field are a hundred times higher- if he sets a bone wrong, or doesn’t clean a wound correctly, there’s no magic to fix it.

Cor’s return does little to change the atmosphere, and after another awkward hour of sitting in bad quiets and staring into space, the consensus is made to catch a few hours sleep before they move on. Gladio sets out a fraying camping chair to face out to the west side for his first watch and sets the tin pot to boil water for tea as the others unroll sleeping packs, setting battery-operated clocks. Cor approaches Gladio as the others settle, eyes hard and guarded. He was difficult to read before the light dropped from the world, but these days Gladio only guesses if he says the right thing most of the time.

“Did you check your shoulder?”

Gladio grunts an assent. He didn’t exactly look at it, but the mild throbbing of pain died down a while ago. When he had briefly dug his fingers through his ripped sweater to feel for it, all there was the shallow grooves of a gash left behind by the daemon’s feint and some dried blood staining through. Nothing serious. Nothing worth wanting to look at that would only remind him of his failure throughout the past couple of hours-

“Got lucky.” He mumbles, knowing that the answer isn’t good enough. His former mentor rubs a hand over his forehead, leaving finger-marks in the leftover dust on his face.

“Luck won’t cut it in future… and I shouldn’t have to watch _your_ back in a fight.”

Gladio flinches at that reply, not expecting it. He’s felt Cor’s disappointment in his performance rather acutely for days, but hearing it voiced so brutally and to the vicious point is jarring. Like being suddenly stripped naked. But it is no less than he deserves. He shakes his head in response, feeling his grip tightening on the tin cup he’s holding.

“I won’t freeze like that again. I swear it.”

He thinks he sounds like a damn child, but rather than encouraging further rebuke, it’s as if his oath breaks something in Cor’s eyes. A hand goes back to massage sore temples, regarding Gladio in-between dry fingertips. Cor slaps his hand back down on to his thigh with a sharp sigh, looking at the ground underneath his feet.

“See to it that you don’t.” He briefly scrutinises Gladio’s face. “I don’t have the strength in me to bury you as well.”

He turns sharply to join the others to rest before Gladio can think of a single decent thing to say in return, his heart racing as he blanky looks out on to the plains. His thumbnail taps against the handle of his cup without him aware of the movement, sounding obnoxious to his ears. He slaps it down beside him, spilt tea getting sucked up by the sweating ground. _Gods be fucked._ He’s so god damn frustrated. And tired of fucking up all the time. Of not knowing what to do. Of not knowing who the in the hell he is now, because the man who sits in this falling-apart chair with his pulse going too fast for his brain is not the man he was two years ago. Not Gladiolus Amicitia, future Shield to the future King, right hand man to the Prince of Lucis and the blossoming leader of the Glaive following the firmly imprinted footsteps of his father. Everything that Gladiolus had is gone, swallowed up by the dark, the footprints he sought to follow lost for forever in the night.

Suppose it’s his own reactions to what goes on around him destroy him the most, though. Because the way it used to be for him was that no matter how tough it got, he always got going. His instincts sharp, honed to a balanced point that knew where to face and how to act. It didn’t matter how hard things were, he fought back harder. Not like this man who stands in his body right now and reacts poorly to everything, losing himself in battle to the point where he seems content to lose his life.

It’s pathetic. And he can’t stand it. 

And what would Noctis think of him? Noct would-

Gladio shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight. Distracted as he is in life at the moment, he can’t often afford to think about Noct because he knows it would make him much worse. The rush of thoughts assaults him as soon as he does let his Prince in properly, spiralling off into dozens of lost moments and hours trying to reconcile the present where there somehow is no Noctis with the past where there was _always_ Noctis. Because somehow there are times now where he still forgets. Thinking of things to tell him for later when later never comes. Looking in the middle of battle for a scrawny frame so he can better position himself. Even now, he’s still being that fool in the middle of a fight who sometimes strikes his hand out and expects his sword to rush to his waiting fingertips in a dazzle. Whenever these moments happen, the aftermath is always worse. The guilt, and regret, and a thousand other things in between, taunting him about things he should have done and said before they went to Zegnautus Keep.

He feels haunted by things he believes he should do now. Like keeping in touch with Ignis and Prompto, although with the former that’s less on him and more on how Ignis took off to Galdin Quay months ago and made it quite clear that for now, he doesn’t want contact. Prompto also is hard to get a hold of, having thrown all his efforts into helping the huge influxes of refugees that still arrive at Lestallum’s gates week after week. The three of them are caught up in things they barely understand, Gladio knows this, but still, he thinks he should do better. Noct would be gutted at how quickly the three of them have scattered apart, and Gladio feels responsible. He’s always felt responsible; suppose that’s never changed, at least.

He opens his eyes to a world that’s somehow darker than that in his head. Behind him are the soft snores and breathing of his teammates who are strangers, and ahead, Causcherry seems still and departed, only the knowing understanding that a dozen graves or so lie in Gladio’s view. Suppose this haven is their only marker. Gods, Gladio feels so heavy. A tiredness that’s never fixed by sleep, never wanting to rest. Forgetting the remains of his tea, he digs into the inside pocket of gilet, his shoulder wincing in protest that he ignores. There’s a split moment of panic before his palm brushes against the small stone hidden there, curling around it tight and bringing it out into the glim of his pocket light.

That’s all it is. It’s a stone: slate-grey dotted with bits of brown, completely unassuming, a bit cube-like and chipped on one of the faces. It also used to be a phoenix down. The last one Noctis ever made at Zegnautus before Gladio lost him. The kid was so annoying for that habit, picking up the most random of stuff to transform into life-saving elements rather than transforming more practical things. Gladio’s precious protein drinks would often get the Ether treatment, and he learnt the hard way to never touch the Ebony, no matter what the stakes where. It used to be funny with the downs though. A running joke as to who could get the most bizarre object. Only with the stone, Gladio remembers it being wordlessly plonked into his hand with a glare and nothing else. Gladio didn’t say a word either, he remembers. Tucking it away somewhere accessible, recognising it for what it was because a Phoenix Down was always warm. A tense transaction between King and Shield, because they still weren’t talking. Merely relying on each other because they had to, and nothing else.

Gladio runs his thumb over the chipped face, gritting his teeth at the memory that replays often in times like this. If only they hadn’t fought. If Gladio had been better at who he was supposed to be, then maybe things wouldn’t have played out between him and Noct like they did. He wasn’t a Shield when he was needed most, and he’s certainly not a Shield now. The desire to return the Genji blade back to its original master often flitters as an idea, only Gladio knows that Cor would probably never speak to him again if he did offer it back.

It’s just that he doesn’t know what to _do-_

The stone is cool in the chilled air. Just as it was when Gladio felt it hours after Noctis had gone into the crystal, deadened to the touch. That was when he fully recognised what they had all lost, not just Noct, but the elemancy too. That’s all it is now in his hand, it’s a damn stone. But Gladio still can’t bring himself to chuck it away after all these months, casually popping it into pockets, feeling for it every now and again. For him it’s still Noctis’s phoenix down, and for him it’s what’s been keeping his sorry ass alive, no matter how much he fucks up and tries to get killed out here. Perhaps it’s a form of denial, but honestly, Gladio can’t bring himself to care. He’s become a child again, fumbling about and knowing nothing. A former Shield without the most important part- his King.

Gladio has an urge to press the stone to his forehead, the smooth and the rough pressing into his skin. It’s no longer a phoenix down, he tells himself. It’s just a stone. A bit of pebble. But that doesn’t matter. There’s just him and the dead and the daemons out here, and he shuts his eyes again to feel the grit and the cold. It’s soothing, in a way. Like a splash of spring water on a hot day, bringing back hallowed memories of a sunlit training hall. Watching himself throw a bottle of water at the lazy figure on the floor, who flashes him a grin. Somehow, Gladio has to get through this. He has to fight for as long as it takes so he can be with Noctis again. He’ll figure it out, he’ll learn how to be a better Shield, and when the time comes, he’ll put right what was made wrong. He’ll do it for Noct.


	2. II: Prompto

**II**

**Prompto**

**(Five years and three months without Noctis)**

He must take two very full and measured breaths before he musters the courage to form words. Even so, with all his preparation, right down to even rehearsing mentally beforehand the way he was going to phrase his request and sorting out the tone he was going to use so it came off as causal and non-desperate, he still kinda screws it up. The words aren’t the ones he planned to use, and he ends up squeaking his question out. Like, literally, he does sound like he’s squeaking. His tinny voice bouncing off the stone sides.

“Hey uh… guys? I’m gonna get us a head start and scout the area for a bit, that okay?”

Immediately two heads lift from their tasks to stare at him in perfect synchronisation, which is utterly freaky to see and has him almost immediately wishing that he never spoke. Still, he manages to gulp down the reactive backtrack that’s on the tip of his tongue, and pulls up a grin he definitely doesn’t feel. Just turning out a bit of that old Prompto charm-

Ha- _what_ charm, exactly?

Aranea answers him first, the frown that puckers her forehead doing a lot of work in scrutinising every square inch of Prompto as he feels his back straighten in response.

“Just to scout, right?” She presses, like the leader she is. Because she is the lead on this mission. Prompto’s made sure of that. Technically there is no need for a leader because there’s only three of them, but he’s assigned the roles anyway. Loudly proclaiming to anyone who cared that he was just tagging along. It’s been important for him to do that.

Prompto nods at Aranea’s query, still faking at being upbeat, “Yeah, of course! No solo adventures, I promise.”

That’s good enough for her, shrugging her assent. She could bring up that he does not need her permission anyway, but gratefully she doesn’t, just going back to servicing the weapons neatly laid out in front of her as she sits crossed-legged by the fire, their dull blades flickering in tired drops of yellow and orange. Iris is sitting nearby her on a large rock, still looking at him. She’s not frowning at him. She still never frowns, no matter what level of bullshit she must deal with these days, but he can feel the concern pouring out of her, her gentle aura covering an interrogating persona worthy to match her older brother. Playing the concern guardian, leading through caring.

“You have your phone on you, right?”

She even sounds like Gladio, Prompto thinks. There’s nothing to be said about how Iris is about six years Prompto’s junior, and that he still forgets she’s no longer the starry-eyed sister of the King’s Shield who used to play punch-buggy with him in the Regalia. Now she’s a Hunter with a name to be reckoned with. Even starting to get the much sort-after nickname status amongst them, although it’s not been prominent enough yet for anyone to dare say it out loud without worrying that they’re going to get a quick threat of a fist to the face from her brother. Apparently, so says his trusty source Talcott, it’s a bit like playing Bloody Mary. Utter the phrase ‘Iris the Daemon-Hunter’ at the Lestallum HQ a couple of times and Gladio’s furious ass will just appear from literally _nowhere_.

Iris should have been the one to worry about appeasing here, not Aranea. Prompto stretches his smile wider, his parched skin turning plasticky and tight. The cold has not been kind to his face whilst they’ve been out here, and he’s sure he looks an utter horror of peeling and pimples. He never thought he was much of a looker to begin with. He pulls out his phone from his back pocket, a giant hunk of a thing that looks like it came from the Mors era, the screen cracked down the middle, and waves it at her for emphasis. It’s a Nifleheim issued phone, one of the only models that will take SIM cards capable of connecting to what’s left of the communication relays out here.

“I’d say I’d go out and take some scenery shots for ya, but uh… don’t think this can take more than five pixels.”

That’s it, Prompto. Keep playing the joker. Some of the tension leaves Iris’s face as she lets slip a small smile, muttering something about keeping safe as she goes back to sewing up her backpack. He too says something equally empty about being back soon as he leaves the pair to it at their small makeshift camp, walking out of the cave and past their sentry lights that act as wards from any curious daemons. The buried plain ahead of him peeks from out the rocks, rich blue and crunchy in the deep night. At least this area isn’t covered in snow. Although it is as cold as if it should be, but it saves money on getting snow-shades. Prompto remembers the blindness and the headaches from all those years back from the last time he was in the Outlands and the thought of dealing with all of that again makes him want to shiver. No, weather isn’t really a thing anymore. Doesn’t matter where you go, the dark Eos has two types of climate: that’s the dark with the dry heat, and the dark with the brittle cold. Both suck.

As well as his pocket lights that are strapped to his backpack straps, Prompto also has an industrial torch, modified to perfection thanks to Hammerhead’s chief gearhead. Clicking it to life, it emits a brilliant beam that seems to light up the entire field ahead of him, pulling every outcrop and bush from the shadows. It’s completely empty out here, just as he thought it would be. There’s the mountains behind him, with their cave tucked out of view, and the plain ahead, pricked with corpses of trees or rocks. About three or so miles northwest is the shoreline, and out on the horizon of the sea, if he looks and focuses really hard, are the jagged outlines and ruined spires of a once glorious city that took his breath away when he saw it for the first time on a small gondolier.

It really says a lot about a place when there aren’t even daemons lingering about. Still, Prompto knows it would be stupid to assume that he’s completely alone out here. His spare hand lingers to the holster at his hip, feeling the gummy metal of his gun. There’s another smaller pistol strapped around his thigh, along with a dagger that he’s used barely a handful of times over the years. He sweeps the torch from east to west in an arc, picking out any features of the land, thinking about ambush spots and listening hard. Still nothing. Not a whisper. It’s all dead.

He doesn’t really know where he’s going to ‘scout’. Probably up to the shore and back. Maybe, if he feels like it. He starts heading that way, but it’s without purpose. He’s bullshitting himself just as much as he was bullshitting Iris and Aranea. They knew he just wanted some time alone. Because he needs it. It’s like how they’ve ignored most of his behaviour for this entire trip, where he’s been jumpy as hell. Like even more than usual, because he’s always a giant jumbled bag of nerves and adrenaline spinning pointlessly on a hamster wheel. Throughout their journey he’s flinching at every little thing, all the noises and touches, yelping awake at the end of a shift watch. How they’ve put up with him like this, he has no idea, although he has a horrible feeling that Iris will wanna talk about it at some point. He ain’t looking forward to _that_.

But right now, he just knew he had to get out of that cave. No real reason why. No one was talking, just getting on with preparing for moving beyond the mountain range and heading south, but the need to bolt had hit Prompto like a tidal wave. Growing and surging higher and higher, making him sweat. He just had to leave. Needed the air, because he was too overwhelmed with sitting with himself. It’s happened a few times whilst they’ve travelled across the Accordo islands, although ‘needing air’ is a bit of a joke. No one needs the air for relief, because it always tastes awful. Like sucking out through a musty bag. He’s the only one who probably likes being able to sense it though, quietly revelling in the comments everyone makes about the smells and atmosphere. Because it means he’s like them. He’s the same. He hates the air as much as everyone else and hates the taste of the miasma and death. That means he’s still human-

He kicks up a clod of dirt with his boots, the soles scratching into the ground. Dust wilts around his ankles, adding another pale brown layer to the bottom of his jeans. His dragging feet sound far too loud out here, and he sweeps the torch again, checking, shuffling his left foot to peel free a bit of rubber from the side of the sole. He hates these boots. He’s had them a year and they’re still stiff and achey, and also really ugly, but he hasn’t got anything else to spare. His old Crownsguard boots got half chewed up in a bounty fight and he was devastated. Even though looking back, it was stupid to get upset. They were just boots. There’s the faintest whiff of sea salt under his noise, threading through the stuffy drift. He can’t hear the waves yet, and he notes that there are splatters of blue and purple embedded into the rock. Small signs of daemon activity, but nothing genuinely concerning. The rumours about Accordo being weirdly daemon-less seem to hold up, although a lot of people believe that’s due to there being little out here for them to prey on. There are no settlements out here. Althissia is just a husk, completely abandoned, having been unable to deal with the full ruin made after Leviathan’s summoning. All there is left are the former facilities on her neighbouring islands that were once run by the Nifleheim empire: old testing grounds and mining hubs and production sites.

They’re the reason why Prompto’s here.

It’s probably why he’s so anxious. Like more anxious; double loaded anxious. This mission they’re on is risky in more ways than one, starting with the fact that they’re in former Nifleheim territory, usually a huge no-no for the Lestallum Council and Hunter HQ. Add further to the idea that they’re here to collect Nifleheim-made _things_ , and it’s a wonder how Cor managed to get this trip approved at all. Desperation is a heck of a persuader, probably. Three weeks before him, Aranea, and Iris left, word got down to him that the final hub of potions for the Hunters had officially been depleted. That was it. There was nothing left. It was kinda numbing to hear, like it couldn’t be real. Sure, there was never many items to go around, but to have nothing at all…?

Still, the go-ahead for Hunters to send out a small team towards Accordo to hunt for supplies had been begrudgingly given even then. And furthermore, the mission had to be kept quiet. Only a select few could know that they were going to access Nifleheim bases to see if there were anything left of their phoenix downs and potions to take, and even less people were to know how and when this was going to take place. Specifically, hardly _anyone_ was to know of how they were going to get into these bases to start with. Which honestly, is a relief, because Prompto thinks who needs that kind of questioning anyway? The Lestallum Council had only understood that the bases required a code, usually depicted in bar form… something that no longer existed when the remaining MTs withered to bulbs of miasma that sucked upwards into the black sky-

Prompto is suddenly very fed up of walking. He wonders why he even bothered to start. He should have just stayed in their cave and waited until Aranea gave the word to leave. Maybe he could have napped. There’s a cluster of boulders nearby that look good for sitting, and he plonks himself down with ungainly grace and stares out into the nothing, plopping the torch in between his crossed ankles to beam outwards whilst he rubs at his wrists through his thick puffer jacket. Briefly, he thinks he should do something though. Something productive if he’s not gonna ‘scout’, like eat some of the crackers he has in his pack, but suddenly that idea seems abhorrent. No, he’s just gonna keep staring. There’s no one about anyway.

He’s started to like being on his own. It had taken awhile to realise that, but all his constant excuses to others and the sudden nervous need for solitary moments and treks had started to add up to him. Funny how it used to frighten him so much, being alone. But then again, he’s known more and more acutely that he still feels alone even when he’s with others these days. Even if its others that he _likes_. It’s as if he’s in a bubble of glass, looking at those around him through a warped concave lens, like peering through constant fish-eye. He doesn’t think anyone notices that he feels like this though. He’s still the jokester. The quipper. There with a happy reply and a bit of hope for whoever is in front of him, even though he’s mentally banging against an invisible screen the entire time, desperate to smash it and really feel like he is with someone else. No one seems to notice that he’s being weird. Or that he even feels like he does. They’re just still there. Still wanting to spend time with him. He literally has no idea _why-_

_Well, thanks for making time for this loser-_

A rare breeze drags a stronger salty scent across his cheeks, and slowly Prompto turns to look at the horizon, the crags of Althissia’s outline sitting stonily out of the sea. The three of them found nothing in their search of the place last week. Not so much as a cheap elixir amongst the rubble and wreckage. Anguli, the former import hub that was west of the city, was also barren. The MT facility there only had ripped out electronics and smashed up data records, determined not to leave behind any secrets. According to Aranea’s map, the last place to go on these islands is past the mountains and south to Auxillium, a mining city. Once the considered sister-dwelling of Althissia, providing the raw materials that had built her into that glittering, river-spun jewel. Provided her the main means of protection too. If the large MT facility that used to operate there yields nothing, then they’ll have no choice but to go towards Ulthem and back towards the Outlands. To the First production site-

Back to Prompto’s technical birthland.

He’s picking at the sleeves of his jacket, pulling at loose threads and unravelling the cuffs. He’s only got the one jacket, he shouldn’t be doing that. He needs to do something with his hands though, and he shuffles his backpack off and looks through it aimlessly, checking inventory. He didn’t bring his camera, and he sort of regrets it now. It would work here with the modified flash bulb just as well as it did in Hammerhead, and he guesses maybe Cindy would have liked to see some pictures. They would work better than him trying to explain what all these places looked like. It makes him flush with embarrassment, but her company has kept him at Hammerhead for far longer than he initially planned. She didn’t ask any questions about why he left Lestallum, or why he wasn’t thinking of going back. Instead, she taught him about cars, looked for ways to upgrade his gear. She’s the one who made the new flash for his camera, testing it with him until they got the tech right for the lens to capture the night accurately, without the grainy miasma interference that had wrecked most of his shots before. She was okay with all of his weird ways, his dumb habits. His lapses into silence peppered with gawky humour. And the acceptance she has of him is like slipping into a good, warm bath. It’s comforting. Familiar. Almost like… almost like being back with Noctis, in some sort of a way.

Prompto is not afraid to admit to himself that he thinks about Noct a lot. Too much. And that’s where he scolds himself. His thoughts never leave him alone and neither do his memories. Life is shitty enough that he shouldn’t be so distracted by the past all the time, cos the present is an apprehension overload and needs more than enough of his current attention. But he always has Noctis in the back of his mind, popping to the front whenever there’s a moment spare, like he’s always just permanently on hold. And it’s kinda bad, because Prompto thinks that’s more than he’s really allowed. In a world now dominated by rations, dividends, and portions, all carefully measured and recorded meticulously, it’s just how he thinks now, and the passing days and years solidify it further. He was only the Prince’s friend from high school. A lucky commoner stroke cursed foreigner in a time of quiet royal crisis who stuck his hand out for companionship and had Noctis grab it back. Noctis picked Prompto because, well, just _because_. And regarding the former Prince turned King of Lucis _and_ now the future saviour of this world (he still does not understand the specifics of the last part, and for now he doesn’t want to ask), Prompto’s role as friend is even less significant. It’s like a question of entitlement. He’s not entitled to miss Noctis as much as he should, as much as he wants. And he feels guilty for doing it. Like how living in Lestallum after Noctis left felt like living a lie. Taking something that wasn’t his. People were fleeing away from the violence of Niflehiem as it was self-destructing with the long night and there he was, an object of that violence, walking amongst them.

Prompto can hear Noct in his head, chewing him out. And rightly so, because it’s stupid; wrong to think Noct would be mad at how much he misses him. But Prompto can’t help it. It’s a dumb fear born from a habit. Like how he still catches himself staring at the exposed wrists of strangers, searching for barcodes and looking for his doppelgängers. He knows he’s the only one who got out, but he still does it, terrified that one day he will find another him, walking towards him in real life as they used to do in his childhood nightmares. So far the only unexpected ghost he’s found was his ‘mom’, wandering about in Melda market at New Lestallum. He didn’t call out to her, but she saw him anyway, briefly recognising her former son before walking the other way and blending back into the heckling crowds like she’d seen nothing at all. Prompto was more surprised at how her actions didn’t hurt for him. He was sure it was meant to. But then again, he’s sure he was the one who should have called out to her. Chased her down. Ask her where she’d been, and where was dad. Fill her in on where _he’d_ been, with a light sprinkling of ‘ _oh, by the way, I kinda learnt everything about the whole ‘being adopted’ bullshit, and found out where I actually came from.’_

He could tell her the whole story-

_‘It involved seeing creepy daemon babies in tubes, murdering my ‘father’, and taking down a ginormous killing machine. Yeah, you had to be there._

_You wanna catch up later for a fake coffee later? It’s made from nettles. Mixed with half a cup of sweetner, s’not too bad.’_

Heh. It doesn’t even make for a good joke in his head. Although he still does maladaptively daydream about confronting his slipshod parents. He’s been doing that since he was about thirteen. But these days that kind of judicial envisioning takes a back seat. Setting neglectful people to rights is just trivial chocobo feed. Silly even, especially when there are other, much worse things he wants to fix. Orphans line the streets and tags are returned to destitute families who take the small discs of metal in bewilderment. Mass funerals have to be held for settlements that have the misfortune of having their searchlights burn out without warning, or have a watch that is tired and inattentive. Desperation all around grows and swells like a disease that seems far worse than the Scourge could ever be. Turning everyone against each other, filling good hearts with hateful paranoia that sees big fights over scrappy supplies and places to sleep for the next couple of hours. When Prompto himself fought for Lestallum to accept a handful of refugees from the Empire’s capital during the first few months of the long night, he got to deal with the brunt of that burning anger first-hand. Everyone said he was nuts to want them in. A couple of Hunters threatened and hawed and to this day there are some that won’t talk or work with him. Even the refugees themselves were suspicious of his battle for them. They weren’t his people, and he wasn’t theirs. They stared in silent suspicion and puzzlement when he got them past the borders, never saying a word as he led them to living quarters and showed them where the main sources were for food and work.

Whenever he gets asked about why he did that, which bad enough, is still quite frequently, he just shrugs. Pretends he doesn’t know. He can’t explain properly to anyone that it was what Noctis would have done. And he would have been far louder about it too. He would have said it was all fucking stupid, to be playing politics during an actual apocalypse. But that was why Noct was Noct. Anyway, Prompto’s moved from Lestallum now. There was too much going on there. Too many people. Far too much noise to let him sit and think in peace. Hammerhead is quieter. Serene, even, if one can drone out Cid’s cantankerous ranting, of which Prompto is a fine expert at.

His butt is starting to get sore sitting on the bare rock. The cold cuts into the ass of his jeans, and his legs are starting to tense up. He should move. He really shouldn’t be sitting here anyway, like a chickatrice target. If Gladio knew, he’d never hear the end of it. He’s counted the bullets in his spare case twice. Thirty-six. Plenty left. He’s also still got the flint and the medicinal alcohol from the Althissia hospital, and there’s not just crackers in the bag like he thought, but some dried berries too. He forgot he packed them. What a result. He meticulously sets everything back into place, sliding off of the rock with a tired grunt and his hands stretching high above his head. He checks his weapons again. Gun in holster. Pistol on leg, with dagger underneath. He takes off his gloves and pokes his fingers into the sleeve of his right arm, digging under the thick sports band that’s on his wrist. He feels the ridges of the barcode first, wincing a little, but then there’s the barbs of the feather he has alongside, pressing against it.

With a practiced movement, Prompto pulls out the phoenix down that he always has tucked inside his wristband. The red plumage of the feather looks a little menacing in the light of his torch, the vane shimmering a little, fluttering with magic. He scrutinises it, as he does every time he takes it out when he has a moment alone. He can’t let anyone know he has this. Not only does he have a working phoenix down, which is currently one of the rarest things to have on the entire planet, it also happens to be a Nifleheim produced one, shaped like an actual phoenix feather in the honour of Ifrit, the father of Solheim. His heritage, he supposes. Although this had been given to him by Aranea on the Outlands, after she’d put a potion to his wrist when he stupidly tried to burn out his past. A means to keep you going, she’d said. Not understanding just how important those words would be for him years later, in a world of ruin beset by nothing but the strength of their own mortality.

Prompto has vowed to never use this down on himself. Ever. For him it stands as a test. Where he was always the weakest of the group, the least confident and experienced, the one whose butt always needed saving and who always had to be looked out for, he works to make sure that it stops with him. He doesn’t need potions, or elixirs or ethers. And he doesn’t need his phoenix down. Over the years that Noct’s been gone, he’s bit and scratched and heaved and pushed himself to never need it at all. Counting the cacophony of scars in odd spats of lucidity and feeling the hardening muscle under his skin, remembering near misses and terrifying moments where he thinks he was about to fail. Somehow he keeps pulling through, and the feather stays by his wrist, marking his victories. It helps the most when he’s feeling lost, when it cuts to him that he’s not a Hunter, just like he was never really Crownsguard. He’s still, after all these years, just Noctis’s friend, and the feather is his reminder of what he must do to keep that title. He may still wonder why Noctis stuck by him, why he always thought him capable when Prompto didn’t, but what matters now is that he makes sure he survives to return the confidence back. To be there when Noctis comes back, because he will. He has to.

He should get back to Aranea and Iris. Help them plan, maybe. He fiddles to hide the feather back in place, turning back towards the mountain range. Their target isn’t far now, and they’re going to need him. He has the sharpest cut of keys to palace, after all. And it won’t take long. Soon they’ll find what they need, or they won’t. But before he’ll know it, he’ll be back within the safety of Hammerhead, fiddling with broken cars that Cindy makes him practice on, waiting for Noct. 


	3. III: Ignis

**III**

**Ignis**

**(Nine years and seven months without Noctis)**

He despatches the final goblin with a force that undoubtedly hinges on the border of unnecessary, slamming it into the ground by the neck and pinning it firmly in the stomach with his lance. The crack of it’s skull against the loamy ground is enough to tell that it’s very dead, but Ignis twists his arm with the impaling for emphasis. The mottled gurgling and smell of rotting and smoke tells him that the job is done, and he kicks away from what remains of the wretched thing, pulling his weapon from the ground. Even though he counted meticulously and positioned by sound all of the goblins around him before he engaged in the fight, he still crouches into a battle-ready stance even though he believes he’s just dispatched of the very last of them. He listens hard for any more, just in case. There’s always a ‘just in case’ means to finishing a fight, more so when one wasn’t expecting to have to raise fists in the first place.

There’s nothing. Nothing that’s not his own hard breathing and the way his leather gloves creak as he tightens up, blending into the stillness. There’s just the ongoing night around now, and nothing else. No more daemons moving here. No more anything moving. And then it occurs to him that it’s now actually too silent, that he can’t hear-

“Talcott?”

Ignis tries to recall where his partner was before the ambush started at the entrance to the Tomb of the Wise. He was off to his left, behind him, dealing with what sounded like an Ereshikiga from all the screeching it did. He turns to that spot, his pulse kicking up beyond comprehension. Did something go wrong? He was certain that during his tussle with the goblins that he also heard that same Ereshikiga die, with Talcott yelling in giddy triumph. He thought he did- or did he mishear? Where is Talcott? Ignis goes to bellow out his name, but gods be thanked, he gets a reply.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m here, Igs.”

Talcott sounds like he’s still off to Ignis’s left side, probably about ten feet away or so. Brief relief floods through his heart.

“Are you alright?”

“I… I think…”

He hasn’t moved. There’s no footsteps to indicate he’s walking over. This is not a good thing, Ignis knows, and just like that, his reprieve is swept away by panic.

“Is it bad?”

The loaded pause tells more than the quiet, strained reply afterwards could ever do, “Yeah, I think so.”

Cold, raw terror sits into Ignis’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Stupidly, he drops his lance with muffled clang as it hits the moss, but he can’t think much on how carelessly he discards his main weapon. He takes ten paces west towards Talcott, then one more tentative step, ready to spring back in case he’s on the verge of accidentally kicking him. Talcott says there’s one more half step, and then Ignis drops to his knees, feeling from his shoulders downwards. Talcott is lying on his left side, facing towards him, his arm seemingly buried underneath him, while the other is crossed over his stomach, holding at something.

“You got hit in your left side? By your hip?”

“Just above I think,” Talcott draws in shallow, shuddering breath, writhing under Ignis’s hands.

“It- it caught me with it’s tail just as I killed it-”

In a moment Ignis is shifting his pack off of his shoulders and pulling his gloves off, grumbling as the stiff leather doesn’t want to yield. He flings them aside to use his fingertips, going back to where Talcott’s hand is, moving it aside so he can start probing by touch. As soon as he’s below Talcott’s ribs, he feels where the man’s overcoat has been violently torn. Beyond the lining and fraying nylon is sticky and wet, leaking over shaking fingers.

Now Ignis feels that sick feeling in his stomach burst. The control slipping from his grasp, the fear flinging free.

“Shit.” He moves his hand a little lower, feeling a torn shirt, drenched in blood, “shit, shit, _shit-”_

“Not… not good?”

Ignis doesn’t answer, moving his weight from his crouch to sit properly at Talcott’s side, trying his hardest to not to move his hands until he’s in a better position. As soon as he feels steadier, he goes back to the wet material, pushing it aside until he feels the warm, inflamed skin underneath. Suddenly there it is, the stab wound. Deep, jagged, and decidedly _not good._ Talcott screams in pain as Ignis inadvertently touches the edge of the gash, jerking violently and writhing, pushing his hands away. Ignis has him back by the shoulders in an instant, keeping him still, cursing himself.

“It’s alright, alright-” He yells over Talcott as the man grits in his screams to growls, trying to regain control. This is far from alright. Really, really far. “Hold still- breathe-”

“S-sorry, sorry-”

“No apologising-”

His pack is not going to hold much in terms of solutions for their current predicament, but he knows they have a first aid kit at least. They never carry much for their tomb expeditions, because usually there was never any need. Emphasis on _usually._ Daemons used to never bother them at the entrance sites, but they had at the last two tombs they’d visited. And Ignis knows they had been hovering nearby a lot closer than normal a few months prior to that. He feels his jaw tighten. For God’s sake, why didn’t he actually think about that this time? Prepare a little more accordingly? Too late for that now, though, in any sense. He feels for the canvas that denotes their medic bag, and pulls it out, spilling the contents on to the grass beside him. A muffled thud tells him they have a pack of antiseptic bandages amongst all the useless plasters and medical tape, which he can use to staunch the bleeding initially. It’s better than nothing. He rips the plastic open with his teeth and gets to work turning the soft fabric into a sizable wad, thinking all the while. Trying to pull the scant remembering’s of what he’s been taught here and there for first aid from experience and life in general. As he works, Talcott continues to breathe hard through gnashing teeth, shaking so much that Ignis thinks he can feel it through the air.

He’s got to wash the wound. Or at least as much as he can. He’d know by now if the Scourge had settled in, which it hasn’t, but now they have to worry about good old-fashioned bodily infection alongside substantial blood loss. He can feel Talcott looking at him, like he can see the cogs ticking in Ignis’s brain but he ignores him and goes back to his pack, feeling for his canteen. They don’t have anything that’s of a medical grade for sterilising. They certainly don’t have booze either. Just spring water. It should be clean enough. He unscrews the lid of the canteen and thinks for a second, before gesturing it towards Talcott.

“Take a sip.” He hands it over towards him. “I’m only sorry it’s not something stronger. I’ll get us some help.”

Talcott doesn’t move to take the canteen, “There’s no service this far out-”

“I know.”

Their phones are as good as bricks this far away from the cell towers, and even by other tombs, Ignis never seems to have service. Once upon a time it used to fascinate him a little. Wonder if it was lingering old magics that played with the receptions. It feels stupid now. And dangerous. Again, another thing he should have prepared for a little better. He reaches into his coat for the right-side pocket, feeling for a square slab. The back-up beacon. He pulls it out and extends the small ariel attached to the side, before pushing the square button that’s in the middle. There’s a loud, obnoxious beep, long and telling, before it cuts off with another beep. Ignis huffs with relief. There’s a connection, at least.

“Is that a radio beacon?”

Ignis lifts his head at Talcott’s question, hearing the difficulty in his voice. He drops the slab next to the rest of the sparse and discarded kit, nodding. Hoping he looks and sounds confident.

“It transmits a distress signal to all nearby receivers within thirty miles, which can also tell them our location within a half a mile radius.” He lifts the canteen back up, realising that Talcott never took it. “Keycatrich village should pick it up, and they always have a patrol near here for their farmlands. They’ll find us.”

“Have… have you always had that?”

“Mhm. Only ever used it once before. Monica gave it to me a few years back when she couldn’t stop me from going hunting on my own.”

In a different situation, perhaps he would tell that story of how and why he had to use it. The distance of time has turned that memory into something that’s now less painfully humiliating to recollect. It’s more of a learning moment now, he recalls. A part of his development. Plus, in hindsight, it’s proven useful for letting him know that the damn device actually works. But this isn’t the time to tell tales. He’s got to aid Talcott, because even though the village isn’t far away, there’s no telling how long it will take for someone to pick up the call and then go out to find them. They should at least figure out who it is that’s putting out the signal. Ignis is known around here. He’s traded for the vegetables and helped the matron cook. They’ll figure it out. He has to believe they will.

“Right.” Ignis fluffs away his thoughts with a light sigh he doesn’t feel, making another grand show of confidence that must make him look like a pillock. “Back to you. Can you see the wound?”

“Not… I can’t-”

“Alright, not a problem.” But it is, because he can’t see it either. But there’s little to be done in snapping him for it, it’ll make him worse. “I’ll have to wash it first. So I need you to move your hand and keep as still as possible.” He acknowledges Talcott’s lack of affirmation grimly, adding what they both already know.

“I’m afraid it will hurt.”

Talcott sucks in a sharp breath, letting out a fake and highly nervous laugh, “More than it does already?”

Ignis gets back into position, hold the canteen with his best hand whilst moving the wad of bandages nearby. The wound is still oozing blood, it’s obvious from the wetness on Talcott’s fingers as he moves his hand away again. Thinking that a countdown or a warning is useless, he drips the water over the wound as quickly as he can, hoping that he’s accurate. From Talcott’s reaction, it seems that he is, for the former howls out in response, kicking his feet against the dirt. Ignis keeps pouring, until Talcott lets out such a scream that has Ignis worried that he is going to pass out, his cries stuttering dangerously. He drops the canteen and presses the wad against the wound in what he hopes is gentle but firm, but he has no idea. Talcott groans and shakes violently, and within moments Ignis can feel that the bandage is going to be soaked through pretty damn quickly.

His mind is at a blank. Unable to process how this simple outing to a tomb he knows like the back of his hand (haha) has now turned to this. He’s frantically hoping that Talcott’s wound isn’t deathly serious. Everyone is going to kill him when they find out about this. Iris will certainly kill him. Gladio is going to murder him. _Prompto_ is going pull Ignis apart limb by deserving limb, even though Ignis has never known the man to ever display to another person so much as a violent bone in his whole body, but there will be an exception made for him for bringing Talcott to harm. He knows that Talcott’s partner, Connor, is nice, and probably wouldn’t do such a thing, but then the dozen or so Hunters whom Ignis knows care for Talcott deeply as both their in-house buddy and as their number one source of information will make sure Ignis is dragged away off into the wasteland and never seen again. And he will take all of the punishment gratefully, glad that there will be not a single bit of him left for self-maiming-

Gods alive, what is he thinking? This is hardly bloody helpful. Is there anything he can think about in terms of what to do, apart from sitting here like a lemon, and try to keep his friend comfortable and suitably alive until better help arrives? He can’t risk moving Talcott, lest he slips into shock, and that sets his brain off even further. There has to be more done to prevent that. Shock is bad. He knows Talcott is already at the shaking stage, and a brief back of the hand to the forehead gets a clammy, sweating feel under his skin. He needs to prevent the progression of it, so he has to- to lift his legs. Yes, that’s definitely one of the things he has to do. Manoeuvring with one hand so he still keeps pressure on the wound, Ignis reaches out for his backpack and drags it over to Talcott’s feet, shoving it underneath them.

Next… what’s next? Keep him warm. That’s basic. He should have remembered that earlier. Ignis shucks himself out of his coat, tucking it around Talcott whilst keeping clear of the of the wound. He has an extra shirt on, and given how the bandage is soaked through already, that’s next to go, added with extra pressure. He can hear Talcott hesitate as he works, knowing that everything is getting covered in his blood, but Ignis shakes his head before he can feel the man open his mouth to protest. He needs him to stop worrying. It’s not good for his condition. Besides, clothes wash.

“Let’s lie you straight.”

“I…” Talcott shudders, shifting Ignis’s coat closer around his neck, “I think I sprained my right arm when I fell.”

So that’s why he never moved it. Another thing Ignis should have picked up on previously.

“It’s not broken?”

“I don’t think so. I can still…” Another shift, followed by a whine of agony, “… move it.”

So that’s a stabbing, some shock, and now a sprain. Ignis reckons he must be numb from all the panic, and that’s why he isn’t feeling it. Or that his mind has decided there isn’t time for it, one of the two. He gets Talcott to replace his hand putting pressure on the wound with his uninjured left one, and again, feeling by touch, even though his hands are slick with blood, prises out Talcotts right arm from underneath him. He bites his lip to avoid wincing at the whimpers Talcott makes, knowing that the man can’t help the noises. Gingerly, Talcott then moves his arm further free, setting it up. It’s like the wound, hot to the touch, but not as puffy. And it’s mobile. A small grace given.

“At least it’s not broken.” Ignis mutters, shuffling to put himself behind Talcott for support and finding a way to keep the pressure on his side. “I’ve never set a bone before, and I’m hardly eager to use you for practice.”

There’s another wheezing laugh, broken up with tremors, “It’s s-s’kay… I- I don’t wanna be practice either.”

Ignis frowns, huddling to Talcott closer to himself so that he lies against his chest, feeling the shivers so acutely it almost makes him want to shake. He locks his legs at Talcott’s side and pulls his jacket tighter about Talcott’s body, tucking in everywhere that’s possible. He has to try and keep him warm, and calm. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he hit the beacon. Could be nothing more than a few minutes, and it could be up to an hour before anyone comes near their way. He knows the village makes patrols up here. He’s sure of it. He’s seen them about, curious about his own wanderings, telling him repeatedly that there’s nothing in the tomb now. It’s just an old building. And he’s always replied in the same polite but slightly terse way, ‘ _yes, yes, I know-‘_

“C-could have done with a potion right about now, eh?”

Ignis pauses, wondering what Talcott means. Potions ran out years ago. So did the Nifleheim phoenix downs and all the other items they could need to keep happily functional in this ruined world. But then again, Talcott is stabbed and disorientated, and also probably trying to keep awake. Ignis needs to keep him talking, keep him conscious-

“Would have definitely been helpful, yes.” He tilts his head upwards in the direction of where the tomb is behind them, “I should have been better prepared for this trip. We’ve been fighting daemons off from the tomb entrances since Gralea. It was stupid of me not to think that they would be here.”

“Well… w-we’ll… we’ll be better packed up for next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time, I think.”

Talcott stiffens, and then flinches, twisting his head against Ignis’s chest, making Ignis jump.

“What?” Talcott stutters, and Ignis feels him trembling harder. He shifts his shoulders, confused, wondering if the pain has suddenly increased or if there’s something else about to go wrong.

“Talcott, are you-”

“Y-y-you- you aren’t planning to come back here?” Talcott heaves another laboured breath, “Are we going back to the others? Or…”

Ignis grimaces, confused by the upset in his voice, “Well, I was planning for this to be our last expedition anyway, even without this… new development.”

“ _What?”_

Ignis feels like slapping himself, realising that perhaps this wasn’t the time to tell him. Fantastic job there. The poor man is already bleeding out and on the verge of shock, and he’s sure he’s just made it a hundred times worse.

“Talcott.” Ignis tries to hold him still, pressing down on his side as the moving threatens to make the bleeding worse “Talcott, you need to relax.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Well, today, probably. If we hadn’t found anything new. It’s not as if we have found anything new for the past year or so, and I doubt there would have been anything here. It’s just….”

Ignis suddenly realises he doesn’t know what to say. Talcott has turned to stone against him, although he knows he’s still conscious, shaking away. The disappointed and hurt silence is more deafening than the darkness around them, and the guilt Ignis consumes is the cruellest and most difficult. He had planned to tell Talcott that it was time to give it all up. To end it. He truly had.

“You can’t tell that you’re completely thrown by my decision.”

After a few moments, he hears Talcott give a unsteady sigh, confirming that he hasn’t been completely off the mark in terms of figuring out what his partner has been thinking recently. Of knowing that he’s thinking along the same lines he has.

“No. B-but… but I thought…”

“We’ve made no progress, and we keep going over the same old ground. I believe this is our tenth visit to the Wise tomb at least. Not to mention that there have been far too many close shaves during our searches to really justify what we do.” Ignis catches on how stupid that last sentence sounds. “And I would further add that this expedition has gone beyond close shaving.”

Talcott still says nothing, and Ignis swallows. He knew this eventual conversation would be difficult, of course he did. He’s been thinking about it for weeks. But never did he think it would be in these kinds of circumstances, with Talcott cut up and waiting for a rescue. But then again, a small, pathetic part of him still hoped that would never have to tell him about ending their searches at all. That maybe today would be that magical day he still pitifully hopes for, where the answer would there. A glorious map out of their future, marked with something that Ignis still cannot accept.

He’s a fool for ever thinking that at all.

“We gave it our best try, and that’s what matters.”

If Ignis’s voice sounds disingenuous to his own ears, it’s because he knows it is. Because he’s grappled for months, no, _years_ , with the thought that in the end, his best try _doesn’t_ matter. Because the raw fact is that he’s failed. Failed to find a resolution. Failed to fix the fates assigned, to subvert the vision he saw all those years ago before he sacrificed himself to seeing nothing. He’s failed Noctis, and there’s nothing more he can do-

_“Shouting won’t change the truth-”_

Ignis has spent the past eight years or so stuck between two realities. Trying to prepare for two outcomes that sit poles apart from each other, repelling like magnets. He’s realised now that too much has paid the price for that. Too much has been given for the the dual living he’s attempted to perform all this time in the pitch. Where in one world he trains himself to bare bones and blood, striving to reach the fighting form he once possessed so effortlessly like breathing, so that he is worthy to be part of the team that follows his King right to the end of the line. And in the other world where he spends full twenty-four-hour cycles pouring over relics and translated texts, dragging poor Talcott across swamps and dead plains and through hoards of daemons, looking for the solution, just so when his Prince comes back, he gets to keep him. He’s poured all of his soul into finding the answer to reversing everything, because by gods, it _had_ to be here in this godforsaken world _somewhere_. Only it’s not. Or he hasn’t found it. He’s failed either way. Perhaps if he had asked others to help him. Had more eyes scouring the tombs. Had reached out, where instead he had reached inwards, cutting people off. Sometimes he struggles to recognise the person he is now. The harder, insular version that seems to have lost all sense of connectivity with others. Even here, he’s not comforting Talcott, he’s just riling him up. Perhaps he’s always been like this, and it’s taken for trying to grapple against gods and taking power that does not belong to him in order to fully bring it out. But also he’s been without the one person who been the centre of his world for such a long time now. The person who makes him feel distinctly alive on Eos, whole. A person worth being for, and dying for.

“Ignis…” Talcott lies heavily against his chest, bringing them back to the current emergency of their situation, the future not so as important at the moment. He’s not shaking as heavily now, and Ignis hopes that his wound has maybe stopped bleeding. Or at least lessened. His folded-up shirt is damp from blood, but not soaking, and he briefly checks Talcott’s uninjured wrist for a pulse. It’s fast. A bit thready. He doesn’t know if that’s terribly bad or not. Talcott turns his head a little, the top of his cap tickling Ignis’s chin.

“Ignis, I’m… I-I’m sorry…”

Ignis recoils, “Oh no no no. No, I’m not having that-”

“But if I knew more-”

“More about what? You knew as much about the ancient lore as I did. And in the end, we did all we could.” Ignis works to keep his voice steady, fighting to keep the tremors out.

“All we can do now is wait, and play the parts we need to when… when Noctis needs us.”

Because Noctis is coming back. And for Ignis, without really knowing why, he feels as if it will be soon. He has no real means to check this. It may have been ten years almost, and he still remembers that horrendous vision of Noctis on the throne as the clearest thing he has in his mind, popping out through the blackness, but he doesn’t know what everyone else looks like. But still, the feeling is _there._ Rushing through his blood like his body is trying to fight an illness he has no hopes of vanquishing. The oncoming moment, the bringing of the dawn, and the end of Noct’s life. As relentless as a tide, and with no means to stop it. The only thing Ignis can decide is how prepared he wants to be for it.

“S-suppose… when…. when Noctis comes back…”

“Yes?”

“Can I… can I pick him up?”

“Pick him up? What do you mean by that Talcott?”

Ignis feels Talcott suck in a breath against him, still shaking. He uses the brief silence to prick his hearing for anyone approaching. Praying that there is a patrol nearby. It’s been a while now, and that might mean someone is nearby. He strains amongst the sounds of Talcott’s rasping and the general whispers of the air about them. Was that a voice he just heard? From the range below them maybe?

“You… y-you said he was likely to be at Angelguard, right?” Talcott explains slowly, almost murmuring the words, sounding exhausted.

“I… could pick him up. And drive him to you… M-means you won’t have to risk waiting there.”

“You want to drive him to us?” Ignis asks, frowning. He heard something, he knows he did. Footsteps. Another voice calling-

“L-like… like how you used to drive him. I’ve always wanted to do that…”

Ignis snaps his head down, and even though he can’t see, he knows that Talcott is looking up at him. For an instant, there’s a picture of him in his mind. The young seven-year-old boy, besotted with the Prince of Lucis, who kindly took his hand and told him nothing was his fault. He doesn’t know what Talcott looks like now, but that seven-year-old is here in his arms, making a request to fufil a childhood dream. A wisp of bright hope amidst all this crap and bullshit that has made up their sad existences for the past decade, with all the death and decay and the wallowing depression that has wanted to eat them all alive. It’s the thought of Noctis. Of being with Noctis again, that has dragged them all through it.

Ignis feels himself nodding, a smile on his face. He can’t remember the last time he did anything other than scowl.

“Well, that sounds like a plan to me. But let’s get you out of here first.”

Talcott mumbles his ascent, just as Ignis for certain hears a voice shouting out, asking if someone needs help. Yes, they’re going to make it through this time, for Noct. It’s always for Noct.


	4. IV: Noctis

**IV**

**Noctis**

**(The coming of the Dawn…)**

His boots clip loudly on the marble floor, echoing around the throne room in tune with a painful pulse that throbs in his head. It’s probably a headache, and gods know, he’s beyond exhausted. Spent in everyway possible, feeling drifted apart from his body already, although he’s got a heart that still beats. Being within the crystal, it hadn’t really felt as if he was alive during that entire time. But he wasn’t really dead or sleeping either. Still able to think and feel, and process. Dreaming, he was dreaming then.

Still, even though he knows that it’s been ten years, and it _feels_ like ten years, the memory of being dragged unwillingly into the crystal still feels as fresh as if it happened only a few days ago, remembering the agonising pull of his limbs against his own chilling terror. Insomnia is battered and broken, but still it remains a city chock a block of sober surfaces, and he’s flinched every time he’s seen himself in the reflections of mirrors and windows, a different man staring back at him. But that is him, King Noctis, and he knows what he has to do now. Ardyn has been defeated in this mortal realm, and Noctis has to follow him into the beyond and finish it for ever. He’s glad to do it. To do it for Ardyn, even. The man, despite all he’s done, is just desperate for some final peace. Noct knows how that feels.

He’s walking far too slowly across the hall. Feeling every step, every movement in his sore body, his breath coming in measured, slow rises. He’s not taking in much of the destruction around him, though. In his mind, he’s still on the central stairs leading up to the citadel, facing the three lynchpins of his existence. The only reasons why he’s here now: Gladio, Prompto, Ignis- he had left them standing there, with an onslaught of daemons behind them, and told them to Walk Tall, that he left it all to them in the end. And yet, before he turned away, turned to face his destiny, he saw in each of their faces what he was always afraid he knew before. The grim resolution, etched into their beings, mirroring between them a shared knowledge.

They have planned to die alongside him. If not at his side, because he won’t allow it, then at very least, in their battle against the hordes whilst he takes his final walk.

Alongside with struggling to see himself, it’s pained Noctis to struggle to see the three of them. It’s not that they’ve aged, not at all. But more that he can see the battles lined along their bodies and movements, shown in countless scars and marks that adorns their skin. They’ve been so used to fighting without his elemancy and his armiger, that to begin with they had to adjust to remembering how to fight like that again, using items that they had long forgotten, flinching at the touch of his magic. That had hurt more than Noct thought was capable. Because it hadn’t been fair that they had spent all this time suffering like that. Suffering from his absence in that way. And it wouldn’t have just been them, it would have been Cor, Iris- and all the others. They all would have needlessly endured from a lack of what he used to give so freely away, seeing more pain, more deaths, more hopelessness. Bahamut had said that they had given their all, but he never clarified that they kept doing so whilst he was gone.

And now, even now, there are three at his side that think they still haven’t given enough. Throughout their final journey here from Hammerhead, since he’s realised what they’ve planned, Noctis has tried through his subtle attempts at pleading to convince Gladio, Prompto, and Ignis to not throw their lives at his feet. Not again. He’s asked Gladio to marry his fiancé and bring up a family. For Prompto to take a leap of faith and go for what he wants. He’s told Ignis not to worry, he may be going alone, but he’s always going to have him with him. Always. Always all three of them are with him forever, and they have to carry on without him. Help the dawn forward. Help build a new world he’s always wanted to see.

It’s not been enough. He hasn’t convinced them. And while they’re too gracious to not defy their King to his face, he as their friend knows what they’re going to do. It won’t be intentional. They won’t throw themselves at the daemons for the sake of it, but somehow, they’ll each die as he does. Missing an important hit, or not hearing a strike in time. Not deliberate, but just inevitable. A result of wills and circumstance smashing together.

Somehow, Noctis has made it to the throne. It’s not how he remembers it from childhood. It has nothing to do with how there’s hardly any light in here. Or that it’s surrounded by smashed architecture, with miasma dripping from the walls. No, the throne he remembers as a child was always his father’s. And now it’s his, and it’s different. It feels different underneath him. Warmth bleeding into his fingers, welcoming him home.

But then there’s another type of heat in his palm, and he opens it, frowning. There are three sylleblossom petals there. Dried, but still retaining their brilliant soothing hue. He recognises them as the ones he had pulled from a pressed flower that was given to him as a final farewell, kissed in between the pages of a notebook. It takes a second to understand how they’re there, and why, and then there’s a brief glimpse of Lunafreya’s face. She is nodding at him, just as it clicks in his mind what they’re for. He closes his hand again, gently, so not to crush them, and uses the very last of his strength, focusing the burning magic into the petals, fortifying their colour, making them fizzle with magic.

It’s time, then. The sacrifice is as every bit as painful as Noctis feared and dreamed, and his free hand trembles on the handle of his blade as he sees his father’s profile out of the corner of his eye, begging for him to look at him. He does not falter. Refuses to bend. Even when he sees the hesitation from Regis, Noctis is able to say what needs to be done. The plunging of his dad’s blade tears right through his body and in another world, he screams with the agony, feeling his insides hurl, his spine break in two. The imprint of it still lingers as he senses himself slam into the world beyond, and for a moment he thinks he alone won’t be enough as Ardyn stares him down, but no-

There they are behind him. His father, Lunafreya- Gladio, Prompto, Ignis… proving him right all along, as predictable as can be. They’ve died, but Noctis won’t let them stay that way for long. Before he can melt into ash and lose himself for ever, he turns to face them, unfurling his fist. The sylleblossom petals flutter and purl towards his friends, his allies, his brothers, and they begin to vibrate with energy, moving into beams of life-giving light. Noctis is able to catch the surprise on each of their faces as they each feel his last phoenix downs approach them, pulling them away from him for the last time. He smiles. 

_“You guys are the best”_

* * *

Waking up is not what the three of them expected, so when they do gasp back to life, it’s in jerking, awkward movements, flailing on the ground and struggling to get their bearings. They ended up separated from each other during their final fight, and it takes a while to figure out where they are amongst the rubble, groping like newborns. Once the three of them are together, at the base of the citadel steps, no one says anything. Only it’s Gladio who moves to grab Prompto and Ignis first, clumsily handling them into a one-armed hug that is soon reciprocated into a mass of huddling together, holding on for comfort. Each with one fist balled up, too afraid to open it and see what they’re holding just yet, as they feel a rising sun on their faces. A warmth crawling through their uniforms with a heat crawling up their backs.

It’s over. And Noctis is gone. There’s just Gladio, Prompto, and Ignis, with the first new dawn and the petals in their hands.


End file.
